Thursday, February 9, 2017

"Don't tell my besties this juicy tidbit: I don't know him at all. It's like Yves Remy has no past. He refuses to tell me where he's from. My friends Taddy, Lex, Blake, and Vive think he's just been released from prison. Determined to find out just who this orgasm-inducing, hung, inked, muscled bad boy with the deep French accent that makes my insides melt into liquid buttah is--I'm doing my own sleuthing.

Remy makes all of my erotic fantasies come true. First, it was in the way he kissed me: intense Frenching. Then, it was how he took ownership over my body and laid claim to every inch of my virginal flesh as he dominated me into the kinkiest submission scenarios imaginable. Lately, he's been giving me Cartier jewelry and telling me how to dress: in Chanel. Yes, I love a man who takes control and knows what he wants. Who doesn't? But this is cray-cray. Where does his money come from? I don't know him at all.

The Manhattanites suspect Yves is the thief who broke into my dorm room a few months ago and stole my diaries. Uh-huh. I bet he's been reading them, too. How else would he know to do all the things that drive me wild? I have to put an end to these sex games he's playing because I'm afraid something bad might happen. Should I call the police and tell them I know who the infamous college campus burglar is? But, damn, his body is just too frickin' good. WTF am I gonna do?" --Poppy White, college junior, talk show host, and Steeler's Fan.

Most girls in this situation, I imagine, would naturally whip around to get a good look at him, then start firing off questions like, “What school do you go to?” and twirling their hair.

Not me.

I couldn’t give a flip. I just wanna freakin’ dance.

I press my backside against his crotch, teasing him, shaking my thang, then lift my hand up in the air to show that I’m having a blast.

All of a sudden, his hands, big and strong, come down over my bare shoulders, sending a pulsating charge through my body that causes every inch of my flesh to tingle.

“Bonsoir,” he mutters in my ear in a deep baritone voice. I whirl around to face him.

“You’re French?”

“Qui.” He turns around, showing me his backside and hiding his face.

“Ohhhh. Two can play at this game, buddy.” Thinking I’m all male and stuff, I get right up behind him, slide my hands into his front pockets, and press myself against him.
He laughs and mutters some words that I don’t understand.

I giggle too, wishing I had paid better attention in French class. I couldn’t stand my teacher in high school, Madame Boulanger. The woman hated me, said I’d never amount to much in life unless I learned French. I’d argued that I’d originally wanted to learn Spanish, but that class was full, so was stuck with Madame Boulanger.

We move to the music, finishing the song.

Just as he’s about to turn, I release my hands and do the same. Slowly I walk over to the far wall. He follows, our hips meshed together as one.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I ask, glaring up at him in utter fascination.

“No, mademoiselle.”

Oh God. This is crazy hot.

We’re in the dark, so I can’t see him very well, but I have to look, at least to see if he has a nice face or not. To be honest, with that accent, he could resemble Herman Munster and I’ll still be turned on by him. I mean, from what I can tell he’s gotta be 6’4. Ohhh, and those hands. They look like football player hands. You know, the kind that can rip your panties of in one fell swoop.

I put my fingers up to his lips.

He bites playfully down on them and wraps his arms around me.

“Kiss me,” I mutter.

He leans down and plants one on my lips. First slow and tender, but as the heat between us becomes scorching hot, his tongue goes deeper as if fucking my face with it. Oh. My. God. In. Out. He nibbles on my bottom lip. Presses me closer to him, tongue diving deeper. His hands cradle my skull.

Fuck. Yes. Now. Take me now. Please.

I take his left hand with my right and edge my skirt up around my waist. Leaning my body onto his, his fingers find their way to my pussy lips. He squeezes them, gently at first, then firmly.

I’m going to be soaking wet. Yup. Any second now. Buckets galore.

“Feel good, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. Finger me. Please.” Turning around, I face the wall. His lips nuzzle at my ears. His hands are up my skirt, his fingers playing with my clit.

“Je serai poète et toi poésie.”

“I'll be a poet, and you'll be poetry,” I repeat his words back in English, the French coming back to me.

Thank you, Madame Boulanger!

God. The mere sound of them makes me wet. Literally.

He pulls his finger out and licks it. “Bien.” Then shoves two deep inside me.

“You’re tight, mademoiselle.” His firm cock, concealed in his jeans but seemingly ready to bust loose at any minute under that zipper, presses against my ass.

“Yves,” he mutters, whipping me around to face him. His mouth hovers over mine. “Come while I kiss you.”

And so I do. I come like I’ve never come before: in the dark, in a nightclub, in a stranger’s arms.

The music is a muffled bass in my ears as he holds me tight. My legs feel weak. I’m soaking wet. I bite down on my tongue as the final wave of the orgasm rocks through me. Squinting my eyes shut tight, bright colors burst behind my eyelids.

Everything is going in slow motion. That is until I hear a familiar voice shouting for me.

New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster pens The Manhattanites, a contemporary erotic romance series of full-length, stand-alone novels, and the naughty new adult prequel companion series The Undergrad Years. Join Avery's newsletter eepurl.com/CQ665 and get a FREE ebook!

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